


Tobermory, or, Sumer Is Icumen In

by Umpleby



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, TributeFic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:47:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25506175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Umpleby/pseuds/Umpleby
Summary: Inspired by rfmsiley’sMade Flesh, which I have re-read until I can quote from it.“I am that desire,” says Atys. “Made flesh.”This is my re-imagining of what happens to Atys.In tribute and gratitude to a master writer.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 31





	Tobermory, or, Sumer Is Icumen In

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rfsmiley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rfsmiley/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Made Flesh](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18700252) by [rfsmiley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rfsmiley/pseuds/rfsmiley). 
  * Inspired by [A Treatise on Food Waste, Original Sin, and Other Assorted Societal Problems](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22419361) by [rfsmiley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rfsmiley/pseuds/rfsmiley). 



Aziraphale notes a most subtle change - this feeling that keeps slipping out of the net whenever he tries to lay hands on it. But he persists, and realises...

What they’d used to fool Heaven and Hell was so potent that it was creating its own reality - they were becoming Human. Oh, the angelic and demonic natures remain, but they recede more and more with the passing of days in the English countryside. He doesn’t quite know what to make of this. He wonders if Crowley senses it, but it is his way to wait and see how this will unfold inside him, between them.

The dawn comes in through the picture window. (Their second spring in Hambledon has started to give way to a splendid South Downs summer.) Aziraphale blinks, finds Crowley pressed against the length of him, and wakes up to an unfamiliar weight in the middle of his chest.

It is a Cat. A sheen of satin fur and bejewelled eyes just in front of his face, breathing softly in the dawn light. For a moment he is bewildered; then the fog clears: “Atys?”

The Cat stretches its claws out and presses them into him with a particular care. It blinks assent, slowly, its shining almond-shaped eyes holding him in a hypnotic gaze. Even in his befuddled state, Aziraphale thinks the beauty of all creation is somehow distilled into this new form curled up on his chest.

“Why have you changed, Beloved?” he whispers, with a sudden stab of fear that Atys might no longer speak. The Cat considers for a moment, and then rests it chin back on his chest. “It wasn’t something I chose,” it says. “Just woke up this morning and felt different.”

As the relief and absurdity of speaking to a cat hits him, Aziraphale begins to laughs helplessly. “Tobermory!” he says, in response to the Cat arching its face into a question.

“Ah, indeed.” The Cat stretches up and nods knowingly; Atys had been looking over Aziraphale’s shoulder as he’d re-read Saki’s classic for the hundredth time. “A fitting name. Henceforth I shall go by Tobermory,” it declares grandly. (Its new voice is richly compelling, spanning musical registers, filled with harmonics.) “Toby to friends,” it says with a wink, before lying back down and rubbing its satiny head into Aziraphale’s skin, its purr loud and satisfied.

Crowley has come wide awake and is staring in stupefaction at the parties to this conversation. “Slow, isn’t he,” says the newly-christened Tobermory to the angel, and sweeps its mildly disdainful gaze away from the demon, something like a smile tautening the plush curves of its face.

Crowley and Tobermory, suffice it to say, do not hesitate to fall right back into the love/hate groove that Atys and Crowley had perfected.

The demon resents that his Desire has somehow become tame, domesticated. “A cat,” he pronounces in a carrying voice to Aziraphale, “is just not demonic enough.” Aziraphale bestows a fond smile upon Toby, who yawns ostentatiously, then closes his eyes at Crowley, swishing his tail a little.

All hell is let loose after Lily Winthrop comes round with a great bunch of peonies. She stoops painfully to make a fuss of Tobermory, just as if he were any old housecat. Toby tuts softly as Crowley starts to rage (he does wait until Lily is safely out of earshot). Ordinary humans, seeing _his_ Desire?

“I, old chap,” Tobermory tells him, “may be your Desire made flesh. But I _am_ my own Cat, and I’m going to do exactly as I wish, thank you very much.” Then it starts to wash itself in the persnickety way of its tribe, and Aziraphale has to work very hard to keep his face straight.

When Toby decides to accompany them to the season’s first farmer’s market, the angel insists on a collar, “because you’re ours and I don’t want anyone thinking otherwise”. He spends a good half-hour re-creating one until it’s just right, although Crowley refuses to look and makes a disgusted moue when he hears the jangle of the bright little bell.

The market trip passes without incident. Tobermory finds a place on a sun-speckled wall and looks about him, giving off strong whiffs of ‘lord of all he surveys’. Every so often he seeks out Aziraphale’s pale head in the village crowd, and is sometimes met with an answering smile.

The angel gets very drunk that night on sparkling wine in the back garden, and starts to sing ‘Sumer is Icumen In’ in his beautiful baritone. Tobermory presses himself close and sings along. His mew is a strikingly loud alto, with perfect pitch. Crowley lies with his head in Aziraphale’s lap, gazing at the fading light. 

When the angel has drifted off into a momentary nap, Tobermory climbs on Crowley’s chest, and touches his cold nose to the demon’s chin. They look at each other and what seems to be an understanding passes between them, glimmering like a firefly in the dusk.

Aziraphale pieces it together as he goes along. Tobermory is now visible to all and sundry, he knows, because Crowley no longer needs to hide his Desire in a dark, shameful corner. Aziraphale everyday quenches the tormenting thirst, restores the cut-off taproot, replenishing the torn-off Grace with his own. No more fear now when the demon displays his Desire, bright flags fluttering to the sound of silver trumpets. 

A fitting welcome for summer, thinks the angel, placing a hand on each of his beloveds. 

_Sumer is icumen in  
Lhude sing cuccu  
Groweþ sed  
and bloweþ med  
and springþ þe wde nu  
Sing cuccu_

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. [ Tobermory](http://www.eastoftheweb.com/short-stories/UBooks/Tob.shtml) By Saki. Aziraphale is a re-reader and he loves and mourns Saki. This is close to his favourite Saki story.
> 
> 2\. _Sumer is icumen in_ has the oldest record of the word _fart_. It was composed by Crowley (wine brings out the poet in him) and Aziraphale illustrated the extant manuscript. He gave the manuscript to William of Winchester to pacify his Bishop with, adding the red Latin text underneath the black Old English. Poor William was a monk who got into trouble with the Church after spending a brief time with Crowley. 
> 
> https://www.classicfm.com/discover-music/periods-genres/early-music/oldest-english-song-sumer-is-icumen-in/
> 
> 3\. And the bright flags and silver trumpets are, of course, inspired by Tolkien’s description of Gondor.


End file.
